


Something More

by Yasha_Sis



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Kidnapping, Gen, Genius Tony Stark, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Magic, Mind Games, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 01:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15570759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yasha_Sis/pseuds/Yasha_Sis
Summary: Anthony is barely eight when he learns the safest place for his ideas is in his head and that even family will use you if given an opportunity. He learns  kindness can come from the most unlikely of sources and a well trained stranger can read him better than one who has known him all his life.Tony is eight when he learns that impossible is a suggestion more than a rule and he can make something happen through stubbornness alone.It is a lesson he’ll make synonymous with his name.





	Something More

The first time Howard says ‘Stark men are made of Iron”, Anthony doesn’t understand.

He wonders if Howard refers to the use of the metal itself and just as quickly frowns at the implication, heart settling as his mind churns.

Iron (Fe) is an inorganic metal, subject to rust and brittle when chilled. While the most abundant metal, it’s also the least impressive of the bunch outside its incorporation into organic life.

It’s a crucial catalyst for multiple biological processes and all known complex life would cease to function without their oh so necessary Iron catalyst. Everyone has iron in them.

Being ‘ _made of iron_ ’ isn’t exactly unique and while the biology of it doesn’t interest Anthony in the slightest, Howard sneers at the concept of softer sciences so the impression must relate to the metal in its most practical form.

Which, to Anthony, sounds like Stark men are commonplace, easily degradable, and _boring_.

It’s the last crime that seals Anthony’s dislike for the analogy and he tells Howard this, just as he questions what any of that tripe has to do with the reason he sought the man out.

The question is justified in Anthony’s mind because he’s four and the shadows at the edges of his room seem to stretch and wriggle whenever he doesn’t look directly at them.

Anthony came here searching for answers because sitting in bed, puzzling over a radio part he snuck from Howard’s junk bin, sits well outside the realm of strenuous so the too fast patter of his heart, the frequent but never enough breaths he struggles to pull in, concern him. Anthony wasn’t running, wasn’t bouncing up and down as he marveled over Howard’s newest car or attempting cartwheels in the hallways when his parents are otherwise occupied. This… stress doesn’t make sense.

Anthony doesn’t know why and ignorance, more than questions, is a thing Howard abhors. The likeliness of understanding outweighs the risk of being an irritation, so Anthony crawls out of bed.

It’s half past one but he knows his sire has odd hours and Jarvis, unfortunately, won’t be back until tomorrow.

Clutching Rogers the Fox to his chest as he avoids the pools of darkness scattered throughout the Mansion, Anthony tries to _breathe_ and carefully knocks on his fath- on Howard’s study door.

He kind of regrets that now. Especially, if the only nonsense he’s given in answer stays ‘Stark equals Iron’.

But... even at four, Anthony knows better than to voice such a thought with the scowl currently leveled on him. He must have mis-stepped somewhere though Howard is speaking before he can determine how.

“It means,” Howard says as he slowly comes to a stand, half empty glass of scotch forgotten on the polished wooden desk. “That Stark men feel no fear.”

Anthony doesn’t flinch when Howard grabs him by the upper arm and drags him down the hall. Howard’s never hit him, though sometimes Anthony knows he wants to. Anthony is a difficult person to deal with, he’s told, repeatedly. Howard can’t help but be aggravated by a child that doesn’t know his place. Heidi, the Stark’s preferred nanny when Jarvis is otherwise occupied, has told Anthony this at least once every few days. He is blessed, Heidi lectures with a sniff, to have such an influential father.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for Anthony to realize father was in relation to Howard.

They stop in front of one of the smaller broom closets on the second floor and Anthony only stumbles a little at the abrupt release.

“Maria coddles you too much. It’s time you learn what our name means.” Howard doesn’t yell, but Anthony feels his skin pebble in unease.

“Yes, sir.” Anthony answers because it is expected of him to be a dutiful, _obedient_ , son. He doesn’t rightly get where this is heading but he knows Howard would get to the point eventually, he always did.

“You’re going to stay until you are retrieved and you will not make a sound. Go,” Howard commands with a gesture to the entryway. Anthony blinks at it, eyes Howard out of the corner of his eye, and tries not to step away.

“Go where?” The boy is stalling, badly, but he’s four and there are no windows in the closets, any of them, so he knows it will be far darker than any corner of a moonlit room could be.

Face set in a painfully familiar mask of disapproval, Howard reaches forward and jerks open the door. It doesn’t creak, the Stark Manor is far too well maintained to make so imperfect a sound, but Anthony kind of wishes it did.

A maw of blackness greets him, yawning and thick, and Anthony could swear there are sinuous whispers coming from the very back.

It makes his hair stand on end.

Anthony doesn’t know how long he spends staring at the gaping emptiness that he knows only holds a handful of cleaning tools [he’s played hide and seek with Jarvis once and discarded the location due to its obviousness] but however long he froze is obviously too long.

Howard’s hand is back but this time it’s between his shoulder blades, shoving him into the pitch hard enough to make Anthony sprawl. Rogers the Fox bounces as he lands beside Anthony and the boy can only think ' _No, please, I’ll be Iron_ ,' before Howard’s voice cuts through his budding panic and settles like a stone in his gut.

“You **still** have this ridiculous toy?” The man’s voice is both incredulous and disgusted, far closer than it should have been at his full height and dread hits Anthony hard enough to make him gasp.

Anthony is scrambling to his knees, uncaring of the dull ache, and spins to lunge for his best friend. He should have left Rogers the Fox in his room. Howard hated the soft velour animal. Anthony doesn’t remember a day without it and he suddenly realizes that nothing about this situation is supposed to be comforting.

“Don’t hurt Rogers!”

The yell is anguished. Anthony can’t bring himself to care about the irritation raising his voice will build in Howard. Children were meant to be seen, not heard after all and anything louder than a quiet murmur was often berated by the man who shared his name. Anthony would be punished for behaving so uncouth, as expected of such a respectable family but instead it is Howard who flinches away from the worn and well loved toy as if he’d been burned.

Anthony doesn’t hesitate to snatch his best friend into his arms and scoot back into the darkness, away from Howard at the moment of weakness. Anything would be better than losing his only friend. Anything.

He is four, not stupid, and no lesson would be learned if Anthony could see the moonlight spilling in from the hall. He hides Rogers the Fox behind himself and stares defiantly out of the hole Howard would close him into.

Still half crouched, Howard watches all of this with unreadable dark brown eyes, lips thinned but for once not frowning.  
The elder straightens after a moment, adjusts his tie and nods once. “Stay until retrieved and not a sound, Anthony. Why?”

Anthony wants to snarl, agitated and so, _so_ afraid because he knows what fear is now. Knows why his heart jackhammers in his chest, his breathing is short and never enough.

But Anthony is also a genius, Jarvis says, and doing anything other than spitting the stupid, unimaginative line that Howard wants is grounds for the Stark man to do something… drastic.

So Anthony pushes his shoulders back and lifts his chin. He keeps his voice level as his hands tremble beside him and lies like the good little boy Heidi swears he will never be: “Because Stark men are made of Iron.”

__

* * *

Jarvis doesn’t find him until morning.

By that point Anthony’s fear had hardened into something cold. Something that nestles under his breast and made him put Rogers the Fox in a shoe box, carefully hidden away in the far corner of his closet.

That day, Anthony learns that fear is something you have to control, something you have to crush and bury and hide. To do anything less led to ridicule, to do anything else invited pain.

Anthony nearly lost his best friend because he had been silly enough, weak enough, to bare his concerns to another.

Stark men weren’t Iron and no matter how many times Howard forced him to say it, he couldn’t stop Anthony from knowing the truth.

When Anthony is four he learns that curiosity can have consequences and he learns to guard his heart with a false face and falser words. He etches the lesson of thinking before speaking in all that he does, though whether he chooses to bite his tongue is another issue entirely.

Most importantly, he knows if he is afraid, he’d best handle it alone and fear should never ever be shown.  
Anthony Edward Stark is better than Iron, stronger than. He would dwarf Howard’s legacy and show the world that men of Iron are a stepping stone to men made of more.

* * *

**~** _**Something** _ _**More** _ _~_

* * *

Anthony is six the first time someone attempts to kidnap him.

Jarvis had mentioned evil people who snatched little boys and girls from their rooms. Bright lights, Jarvis says as he hands him a bulky flashlight, and loud noises can scare them away. As their hands brush, a spark zaps Anthony. The static charge jumping between them facilitated by the wool blanket.

Jarvis, of course, apologizes, because Jarvis is everything kind and considerate in Anthony’s life when Maria is gone on trips and too tired from socializing to tuck Anthony in. That she remembers to do it at all is something the Stark heir cherishes, but his mind is quickly splintering off to the cause of the spark and the sting of it.

Pain was a good enough deterrent to get someone to do what you want. Pain always made him faster, more careful. He’d be helping, wouldn’t he?

Anthony ponders this, looks at the flashlight and decides if anyone did show up unannounced, he’d encourage them to go away.

So he’s confused why Jarvis is so appalled by the screaming man who stumbles out of Anthony’s room.

“Are you ok?” Jarvis asks, voice soft as he cradles Anthony in his arms after the bad man was taken away by the police. The boy nods easily. The bad man had only gotten close enough for Anthony to retaliate. Not to actually touch him.

Maria cries a bit when the reporters show up, but after they leave her eyes dry. She hugs Anthony very tightly, eyes the deceptively innocuous flashlight and marches off in the direction of Howard’s study.

Anthony doesn’t get a chance to ask why Maria was going there, because Jarvis is cautiously handling the flashlight and about to push the wrong button.

“Not like that,” Anthony chides, tugging the device from the kindly man’s hands and turning it away. “If you slide this up, it’ll trigger the electric shock.”

Anthony proceeds to demonstrate. He points the normally lit end of the flashlight at his wall and flicks the trigger. The device clicks, the clear lid for the false lens pops open and two prongs with wires trailing shoot out to embed in the carpet.

Jarvis jolts when the carpet lets out a strange hissing sound before a small flame bursts between the rods. Anthony, surprised but pleased at the strength behind his invention’s second firing, flicks the switch again to eject the wires and carelessly tosses his half full glass of water to smother the flames.

“Who-?” Jarvis starts, eyes panicked, but Anthony is already talking, bouncing slightly now that he gets to _share_ his invention. He wanted to surprise everyone with it next time Maria and Jarvis were free but there hadn’t been a time and the man from the kitchens sneaking into his room warning him to “come quietly or else” seemed like as good an opportunity as ever to have a practical demonstration.

“Guns are boring, and obvious, but a flashlight doesn’t look like it could hurt anyone so I used that. It took forever to fix the lid mechanism and get the prongs to detach but it worked way better than I expected! It wasn’t supposed to light his clothes on fire and shock him. That’s overkill. We’ll have to dial back the amperage.” Anthony concludes, setting his prized possession next to them on the bed. Jarvis flinches a bit when it rolls and taps him on the leg, causing the Stark heir to look at him in worry. Was he not supposed to scare bad men off like that? Did Jarvis actually expect him to flash the light in a potential kidnappers face and think it would make him run away? That just seemed silly, and Jarvis rarely said silly things. Anthony didn’t know what he did wrong-

“Oh, sweet boy.” Jarvis whispers into his hair, curling his arms around Anthony a little more. The embrace is warm and feels like hugging Rogers the Fox while wrapped up in his favorite blanket. Jarvis smells of green tea and wood polish, and the wiry strength surrounding his tiny frame never made Anthony feel safer. “You made this?”

Anthony thinks that’s pretty obvious but at six he has something that might be tact and only nods his head with a grin. “Yup,” he chirps, popping the ‘P’ like he knows Howard hates but Jarvis enjoys. “I wanted to scare the bad men myself so no one would have to worry about me.”

For some reason that only makes Jarvis hold him tighter. “I will always worry about you, Young Stark.”

The sentiment leaves Anthony feeling vaguely insulted. Jarvis huffs as if he can read the emotion and pulls away, tilting the Stark Heir’s face enough to see him fully.

“I worry because you do so much on your own, Anthony. Know I will never begrudge you asking for my assistance. Promise me, if something like this occurs,” He gestures to the scorched carpet and the knocked over lamp. “If you are ever in any danger, you will tell me. Promise me you will let me take care of you.”

It is only because this is Jarvis that Anthony lets the smile drop from his face. His chin dips and Anthony considers Edwin Jarvis through his lashes.

Anthony learned when he was four to never show fear, to handle his problems alone or risk others getting involved the wrong way. He would not risk Jarvis just as he would not risk Rogers the Fox.

“Please, Anthony.”

It’s hard, but Anthony forces himself to promise the words.

If he interprets them in a way that will never put Jarvis directly in danger, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

* * *

Anthony is six when he realizes there are some things that matter more to him than his word.

Even if it means lying to people who have wanted nothing more than to protect him.

He is also six when Howard takes a more active role in his life.

* * *

**~** _** Something ** _ _**More** _ _~_

* * *

Anthony makes his first weapon at six, his first pistol at seven, but it is the circuit board he brings to life one hot summer just after the age of eight where he finds his soul.

This, Anthony thinks as he lays down the soldering iron, is what he is meant to do.

He shows Jarvis, because it’s _Jarvis_ , and Maria because she always enjoys humoring Anthony in a fit of inspiration, but it is Howard’s reaction to the slightly miniaturized circuit board that affects Anthony the most.

Irritation is first since they interrupted him in the middle of pouring over maps of the Arctic. Anthony tries to never intrude on those moments because Howard is nearly manic in the hours he spends scanning the sea and measuring a radius out with a bit of string. Anthony knows better than to enter but Maria Stark is every bit the wife of Howard and she does not abide him in such moments when she wishes to be heard. She presents the circuit board with a smug smile and Anthony struggles not to straighten beside his mother when Howard Stark’s gaze finds him.

Shock follows closely after incredulity. Anthony’s circuit board works, he knows, and he can explain every component and wiring choice in his sleep. This circuit board is the result of months of creating through the end of the school year and most of the summer.

It is _**his**_ and for once he will not allow Howard to tell him otherwise.

The next emotion unsettles Anthony.

Howard had never directed such a look at him before and if he hadn’t had Jarvis, hadn’t known the breadth of affection and emotion that could be conveyed outside of irritation, disappointment and anger, Anthony wouldn’t have an inkling of what it could be.

It almost looks like Pride.

But it passes too quickly for Anthony to convince himself it was anything other than his imagination. Howard throws on his showman grin that Anthony despises but takes note of avidly.

Starks are liars after all, Howard more than anyone, and if Anthony is to best this man he must learn from him as well.

“I think the investors will love to take a look at this baby, eh Maria? The Stark name looks like it’ll be going strong for a few more decades still.”

Maria laughs, soft and musical but Anthony is already turning away, face blank and posture ridged.

He’d never see his circuit board again, just like the flash-tase. Howard collected all the ideas that flowed into his office and pumped them out as his own. Anthony had seen it before when he was forced to sit still and listen in those godawful business meetings, but it had never been with things Anthony had created.

Not until the flash-tase.

His circuit board would probably be next.

The idea made the odd thrill of warmth from seeing that almost expression shrivel up and die.

* * *

There is no surprise when, two months later, Howard and Maria Stark fly to California for a presentation on the new Stark circuit boards that are revolutionizing the processing power of the world. Anthony feigns illness when they try to force him to go and ironically finds himself with a case of the flu as the date of departure dawns upon them. Maria is disappointed, Howard yet again annoyed, but it is Jarvis who promises to stay with Heidi to see him well.

If Anthony wasn’t shivering in miserable illness he’d have hugged the man as soon as the Starks departed.

The conference is two weeks long and it is during the fifth day of his parent’s absence that Anthony begins to recover and Jarvis grows ill.

Anthony regrets wishing to be free of prolonged exposure to Howard’s scheming when it leaves Jarvis pale and shaky in bed. Anthony is not much better off, Jarvis assures him with a raspy laugh. The boy’s coal black hair still sticks to his forehead with sweat and Anthony’s chocolate brown eyes are more often glassy than not, but he can move and that’s more than Jarvis can boast of so Anthony tells him to focus on getting better and runs off to harass the kitchen staff for more soup.

He’s shooed away with fond exasperation and shuffling towards the grand staircase when he hears the crash.

Initially, Anthony starts to ignore the sound as a crackle of thunder. A storm has raged for the better part of the day and at seven thirty five at night it’s still going strong. When a quieter thud echos in the wake of a particularly deafening roar of thunder, Anthony doesn’t hesitate to head towards the source.

He’s not worried because the mansion has eight kitchen staff, four cleaning maids, a sickly Jarvis and Heidi all manning their stations and it was probably a window pane that gave out at the crack of the storm. Howard oft complained about the age of the patio window panes, but Maria liked the antique quality to them. A big enough rock or twig flung around by the late summer storms would shatter them in a second.

Anthony twists the handle on the doorway leading to the patio and spots the glass littering the floor through the sea green tinted lens. Rain splatters against the marbled floors in fat, heavy drops and Anthony smirks at the ruined furniture soaking in the lashes of rain. Maria will be beside herself when she sees this.

The smirk freezes as Anthony spots a shadow moving outside the outer patio floor to ceiling frames. It’s too big to be an animal, too tall and it hovers outside the far doors like a wraith. Part of Anthony wishes the lighting would flash just so he could see-  
The eight year old eases away from the parted doorway, heads back to the display case Howard never fails to boast of when guests visit and easily picks the lock for the Smith & Wesson .44 Caliber Magnum revolver nestled in a bed of silk. He makes sure to scoop four of the eight bullets from the display and carefully slot them into the cylinder, fingers steady and practiced-

Aunt Peggy shows him how to hold a gun after the first kidnapping attempt, unyielding and relentless when she learns Howard does nothing to teach Anthony to defend himself and the Stark power couple would rather pretend it never happened. “Pardon my French, Mayflower, but your parents are delusional if they think I’ll sit around with my thumb up my ass, waiting for someone else to try to take you.”

Anthony doesn’t mind, never minds once he learns who Peggy Carter is. Once he sees the effortless way she gets Howard to talk himself into a hole or make his mother laugh. Anthony **_adores_** Aunt Peggy and he takes to the task of learning firearms with a focus he allows for everything that matters to the people he loves.

Aunt Peggy, however, would not approve of Anthony handling any potential threat on his own (You’re hardly up to my hip, Mayflower. Get someone bigger than you to act as a meat shield until your Aunt Peggy can help out.). But Anthony was sure he could get her to forgive him. She is particularly susceptible to his big eyes and trembling lower lip, Anthony’s learned, and he uses the tactic sparingly enough that it should still have some effect should the woman ever learn of what he’s about to do.

By this point, Anthony’s inches from the cracked patio door and cocks the hammer slowly as he levels the gun at the shadow that’s now shifting beside the shattered pane of glass. A significant puddle laps at the imported cherry wood chaise and Anthony knows his mother will be furious at the ruined upholstery. Irritable grumbling makes Anthony tense and he forces his grip to remain firm but not too tight, checks his hand placement and steps forward. He slides the door open with his foot and slips into the room shoulders pressed slightly forward, aim steady.

“Don’t move!” The boy orders, voice cracking just enough at the end to make him inwardly cringe.

Despite the show of nervousness, the shadow stills and Anthony realizes belatedly he probably should have mentioned to somebody that a creep was hovering outside his home.

A flash of lightning carves across the sky, blinding in its intensity. Anthony squints through the sudden illumination, forcing his tired eyes to catalog everything in the space of the four second series of flashes.

The intruder is short, shorter than Maria maybe, dressed in dark clothes with darker hair. Their left hand is raised like an ineffectual ward against the rain and the right paused mid swipe of their face. Anthony picks out a slim figure though the gender is difficult to determine with the light shadowing their front, but the voice that responds to his clear threat is unmistakably annoyed.

“Great, now I have to do damage control. Kirt has the shittiest aim, kid, I swear. I ask for a small displacement, like ten feet, I drew a fucking circle even, and now I’m Merlin knows where with a pintsized Dirty Harry staring me down.”

The diatribe ends with what he can imagine is a scowl and Anthony has to stop himself from lowering the pistol at the young, woman’s voice. It holds a soft foreign accent that reminds him vaguely of Jarvis. That she sounds so remarkably at ease with him threatening to shoot her is unsettling.

“Hey,” Anthony barks, grip tightening in his nervousness, but hands painfully steady, “I’m not joking. I’ll shoot you!”  
He bristles at the woman’s snort. “Go ahead. Pretty sure I’ll be better off than you, hun. With your twig arms you’ll give yourself a concussion with the recoil, but don’t listen to the strange lady shivering in the rain.” She spreads her arms and Anthony hates the indulgent tone that come next. “Give it your best try, Dirty Harry.”

Anthony’s actually tempted, but Aunt Peggy taught him more than firearms and Anthony wants Answers. He’ll never be taken, and he’d like to nip whatever strange fascination people had with trying to kid nap him in the bud. It wasn’t like Anthony wanted Howard to complain about paying a ransom to have him back.

The boy glares at the shadow and forces himself to take a breath. “Who are you and why are you here?”

When her hands start to lower, Anthony lifts the gun a little higher in warning. She pauses, huffs a breath and leaves them hanging awkwardly at her waist. “Nichelle Nichols,” the woman replies irritably, “and I told you why I was here. Kirt has shit aim.”

Anthony gives her the best unimpressed look he can while most of their features are obscured in shadows and forces his voice to mimic his mother at her most skeptical. “Your name is the actress of Lt Uhura in Star Trek?”

He can almost feel her perk up. “Hey, you knew that? How old are you, twelve? I didn’t think anyone under the age of twenty knew what that show was.”

“I’m eight.” Anthony answers, indignant. “And stop trying to distract me. Why are you here? Are you trying to kidnap me?”

“What?” The woman squawks, hands dropping reflexively in disbelief. “Eight? Why aren’t you in bed? No. Scratch that. Obviously you have shit parents if you’re wandering around with a gun in your jimjams. Hell, kid, no I don’t want to kidnap you. Why is that your first response to someone being stranded in a storm outside your house? Speaking of, can I get a towel or something, maybe a sec to dry off? I hate getting sick.”

Anthony hadn’t had a bed time since he was big enough to put himself to bed and he didn’t appreciate anyone insinuating that he needed to be looked after. Anthony has Jarvis, this is more than enough. Any additional oversight would just be overbearing and oppressive.

He wouldn’t tell this crazy lady that.

Stepping forward, Anthony used the gun to gesture slightly for the woman to move away. “Because people try to kidnap me,” Duh. “How did you get back here? And don’t spout that crap about bad aim. You weren’t beamed here, Lt Uhura.”

Light flickers again, highlighting the cast to the woman’s figure and Anthony hates how clammy his skin feels or how heavy the gun is getting. He had just gotten leave to get around and a part of him knows he’s regressed to bed rest once he shoos this woman off.

The stranger says nothing for a long moment, but Anthony feels like she’s seen more than she should have in that last brief slash of lightning.

“You’re sick,” She says, voice flat. There’s an edge to her voice now that wasn’t there before and it makes Anthony want to shuffle backwards away from the downpour. Already the edges of his pajama pants were damp from the spray. “Alright, you’re gonna put the gun down and I’m going to come in. Hit the light switch behind you.”

Anthony goes ridged, a scornful scoff on the tip of his tongue that gets locked behind clenched jaws. His body moves jerkily, hammer released, gun slowly coming to rest at his sides as he turns his back to the woman drenched by the rain. The lights come on with a buzz of electricity and Anthony blinks at the brightness, horrified and struggling to get his body to obey him. He hears her steps crinkle over the shards of splintered crystal and shivers as he twists back to face her.

She’s still short, Anthony notices inanely, with warm brown skin and curly black hair tucked under a faded dark green hooded jacket ill equipped for the downpour. Her eyes are a startling grey and Anthony would have kept staring at the oddity of the color if her mouth wasn’t pressed in an angry flat line. Whatever is upsetting her gets buried from one blink of Anthony’s eyes to the next and then she’s sighing, hands lifting to tug away her drenched jacket. “Relax, brat. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Anthony regains control of himself as the words leave her lips. The pistol twitches in his grasp, but he doesn’t raise it. She did something to him, something that made him completely ignore his personal desires and **_obey_**. His stomach churns in nausea because what stops her from doing something else, something more? He feels an overwhelming swell of helplessness and Anthony just can’t-

“Whoa there! Hey little man, you need to breathe. In. Hold. Out. Hold. Slow and steady, that’s right. Deep breaths, hun.”  
Anthony blinks up into concerned silver grey eyes. He’s half in her lap, head tilted to allow the most air to pass through his trachea. She’s rubbing his shoulder with one hand and cradling his neck in the other. The tenderness to the action, unexpected and unquestionably kind, makes Anthony cringe away.  
  
She pulls back and drops her arm, offering him an escape that Anthony scrambles to take. The gun is laying four feet to his left, discarded and more than likely scratched. Anthony must have dropped it when he panicked. Panicked because that woman twisted his very **will** -

“What did you do to me?”

His voice is raspy and he has to force himself to wrestle down a cough. Dark brows lift slightly. “I got you to focus on my voice, you were hyperventilating-”

“No,” Anthony cuts in because she **knows** what he means. “Before that.”

Her eyebrows are nearly at her hairline but the surprise shifts to something considering. “A derivative of the compulsion charm, maybe a little stronger than I like to use on kids. You were being particularly stubborn.”

His shoulders hunch and he presses himself further away from the disconcerting answer that it was. “Compulsion? Like brainwashing.”

She makes a face. “Hardly. You knew exactly what I wanted you to do and you were cognizant the entire time, weren’t you? You just didn’t act otherwise. I’m kind of surprised you noticed it let alone fought it.”

Anthony’s mouth gapes just a little at the ridiculousness of that statement. Why wouldn’t he notice himself ignore his own thoughts?

He says as much and the woman is surprisingly upfront in her answer.

“There’s a spell that can create a state of mind that allows you to be susceptible to suggestions. Obviously not 100% foolproof or anything, but it leaves you feeling like a used tissue paper once it’s done and you don’t notice the oddness of your thoughts. Most folks don’t have enough self awareness to take note of the lesser compulsion spells.”

A sheepish expression slides in place when he glares at her and the woman tugs her hair over her shoulder and wrings the mass of tangled strands out on the ground.

“Look I didn’t do that and I’m sorry I trampled on your eight year old pride, but you were stressing yourself out and you’re ill, hun. You should be in bed. The longer you argued with me the worse you were gonna get. Be happy I got you out of the chill, will you?”

Dark eyes narrow at that. Anthony flicks his gaze around the room and can’t help them widening as he realizes the broken glass from the floor is removed and the window pane replaced. He should have noticed the storms muted howls once he came too. The large pseudo moat previously surrounding the chaise no longer mars the floor and Anthony is startled to see his damp Pajamas were very much warm and dry like they were fresh from hanging in the sun.

“How did you-” He sputters, discarding the question for another. “What happened to the glass?”

“I fixed it.” She answers, voice bland and distracted. Her attention is fixed on her fingers as they busily undo the tangles knotting the mess.

“How?” Anthony demands, because no more than a handful of seconds passed, at most a minute, and yet 12 liters of water, a three by nine foot pane of glass and Anthony’s own pants were conspicuously restored to their previous state. It was almost like-

“Magic.” There is a grin on her face and a dare in her eyes. He doesn’t believe her though Anthony knows nothing his family possesses could do such a thing so quietly and quickly.

“Magic is impossible.” Anthony says instead, remembering vividly the lecture Howard gave him when he asked if Aunt Peggy was his Fairy Godmother.

Eyes laughing, the woman shrugs.

Anthony frowns at her, mind spinning, but what he asks instead is, “Why are you here?”

“Broken record, you are.” She grumbles tossing the finished tail of a braid over her shoulder and smoothing her hands against her legs. The fabric even looks dry. It _couldn’t_ be possible. “I’m not one for repeating myself, squirt-”

“Anthony,” the boy interrupts because he is tired of no one saying his name other than Jarvis. It’s his name and hearing this stranger disregard it chafes. That she hadn’t known it at all didn’t matter. “My name is Anthony Stark.”  
Grey eyes narrow at him warningly. “Also, not one to be interrupted.”

Anthony’s body curls a little at the reprimand but his gaze is steady. He hasn’t backed down from Howard. He won’t back down from some strange lady who could make water disappear and control kids.

“Anthony.” The name is a test, a curl of the tongue as she tries it out, considering. “Anthony. Mmmm. No. I like Tony.”  
The scowl seems to hover easily on his face whenever he has to talk to this woman. “My name is-”

“Tony,” She cuts off with a tilt of the lips. “I appreciate you letting me use your place to wait out the storm.”

Mulish, the eight year old glares at her. They both know he didn’t have much of a choice.

Smiling now, soft and surprisingly fond she tilts her head, “If it’s any consolation, I think you could have fought out of it. You’ve got a pretty stubborn will. Reminds me of my little brother.”

“Not strong enough,” Anthony shoots back, bitter. If he’d been smarter, he’d never have gotten in the situation. If he’d been stronger, he’d never have failed for her tricks in the first place.

She tuts and leans back on her arms. “Totally could, just takes practice. Besides, you’re not under any spell now. You could pick your mighty Magnum back up and try to blow a hole through me. I’ll even stay still.”

Concerned grey eyes flash in his mind and Anthony grimaces at the thought of hurting her. “I won’t let you wander around my house. I’m um… containing you. Don’t need a gun for that. And Magic doesn’t exist.” He throws in as an afterthought to remove the weird calculating look she is giving him.

“Yeah, impossible, I remember.”’ The calculation doesn’t waver. “We can keep working on it if you like. I don’t have anywhere to go until my ride gets back. The storm is also a bit of a deterrent to wiling away my time outside.”

Anthony doesn’t trust this woman, doesn’t want to take the chance that she might use him to do something dangerous, but he’s also curious. IF he could fight whatever it was she did off, shouldn’t he try?

“Why would you offer to help me? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of being able to brainwash people in the first place?”

A roll of silver grey eyes, “Not brainwashing. No such thing. Either your will and mind are subverted or your mind is completely destroyed. You can’t make a person think thoughts they don’t agree with without damaging their brain.”

The matter of fact tone and the lazy way she shrugs her shoulders as Anthony stares at her, horrified, makes the Stark heir’s gut clench in dread. He would die before letting that happen to him, he knows, but he didn’t trust this stranger with his mind.

He ignores the part pointing out her actions kept him warm and dry and nothing bad has happened to him yet.

“But to answer your pragmatic question, Tony.” She grins at his scowl. “I don’t agree with anyone being taken advantage of for personal gain. Why not help you with it when you obviously lack self-preservation skills? Teaching you the basics won’t take long, the hard part you have to do on your own.”

Anthony ignores her dig and takes a breath, hugging his knees a little tighter. “What’s the hard part?”

Eyes half lidded, she watches him force his shoulders back as her stare and her silence continued.

“The hard part,” She finally says with a rueful smile, “is remembering who you are when it’s easier to forget.”

* * *

The Stark is eight the first time he introduces himself as Tony, much to the entire household’s consternation and he refuses to answer to anything else, no matter the punishment, for six months after. He grimly repeats the process to any new staff when they think to call him different.

Tony is eight when he learns that impossible is a suggestion more than a rule and he can make something happen through stubbornness alone.

It is a lesson he’ll make synonymous with his name.

**Author's Note:**

> Dunno if this will become a full fledged story or sit with one in the bank. I've always loved Tony Stark and I'm hoping I did Young!Tony a service. Please send your thoughts, criticisms and concerns.
> 
> All the Best,
> 
> ~Yasha's Sis


End file.
